99 - The buskers.
joneworlds@mailbox.org

I rode along with Pete and Del into town the other
day.  Pete got a tip  on some cheap covid vaccine,
recently-expired stuff  that someone  scooped from
the trash at an Amazon clinic.  Worth checking out
for sure.  Pete's contact is  kind of cagey so Del
and I wander off while  he meets them.  Don't want
to spook 'em.

Anyways, I wander  over to the main drag  to get a
taco from the truck there.   And I figure I'll see
some music because there's  a pretty decent busker
scene there, these days.   Today there's this trio
I never saw before.  It's  a tall white haired old
lady, an extremely  short southeast-asian man, and
this  fairly  young  centaur.  They're  all  three
dressed in these bright orange jumpsuits like they
just escaped  from prison  or something.   The man
and the  woman are singing some  wordless la-la-la
melody  in   perfect  harmony,  and  the   man  is
strumming  and plucking  on  some ancient  guitar.
And   the   centaur  meanwhile   is   occasionally
bellowing  something over  top of  this.  And  I'm
thinking at  first he  is just  being an  ass, but
he's hitting  his mark  right on time  every time,
and I  realize this  is exactly as  they intended.
It's the  most bizarre act  I've ever seen,  and I
watch so long  and am so rapt that I  drop by taco
and I don't even  care.  Some dog eventually comes
by and eats it, and that's okay.

And when  they're done  their songs, they  pack up
and jump  in this  old army  jeep without  a word,
driving off even though I want to talk.  Sometimes
I wonder how a band like that finds each other.  I
wonder if I'll ever see them again.